


Fic: The Learned Men

by jedisapphire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 18:29:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedisapphire/pseuds/jedisapphire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam goes missing from the bunker, leaving behind one book, one scribble, and one frantic big brother. In fifteenth-century Italy, a young man almost trips over a stranger lying on the path. It’s business as usual for the Winchesters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cybel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cybel/gifts).



 

  
There was a crash and a thud, and Dean Winchester groaned and abandoned the patties he was grilling.

“Sam!” he yelled, going to the door. “You’d better not have broken your arm. It’s the middle of the freaking night! I’m not taking you to the hospital now!” He waited for his brother’s snarky response, and when nothing came, he yelled again, “Sam!”

Still nothing.

Grumbling, Dean turned off the grill and stalked across the bunker to the storage room where Sam had been having private time with some books. Trust Sam to hit his head or stub his toe or whatever he’d done just when Dean was looking forward to a quiet evening at home.

He flung open the door.

For a moment, he stared around the empty room, half-hoping, but not really expecting, that his brother would leap out from behind one of the bookshelves and yell, “Surprise!” Dean would kick Sam’s ass for scaring him, but that would still be better than…

An empty room and no overgrown brother.

Dean made a quick circuit. Sam was nowhere, and there was no sign of what could have happened to him other than the symbols on the floor and a book lying facedown next to them, as though Sam had dropped it.

Dean knelt to examine the symbols. They were in a mixture of Latin and Enochian and something Dean didn’t understand, carved into the stone.

“If you’ve gotten yourself in trouble…” he said aloud.

He didn’t bother to finish the threat. Of _course_ Sam had gotten himself in trouble. That was what Sam _did_. And Dean would rescue him, because that was what Dean did, and then they’d have a talk about not playing with strange symbols you found carved into the floor.

* * *

 


	2. Prologo

 

The sun that rose over Tuscany was as red as the scarlet cloak of an Ancient Roman general. The young man hurrying up the hill cast it a superstitious glance, but he didn’t slow down.

“Death,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Death is upon us.”

Involuntarily, a picture rose before his eyes. Polished black stone, a tall robed figure, a moment of soul-deep terror as the viewer gazed into its unseeing eyes –

His large hands twitched, and a rebellious part of his mind longed, even in this extreme circumstance, for hammer and chisel.

He forced the thought to the back of his mind. There would be time for sculpture when this was done. At the moment, though, especially now, when everything else was uncertain, appearances had to be preserved. He was expected at the villa.

He was so intent on reaching his destination that he almost failed to see the still, huddled form lying across the path. He noticed just in time to prevent himself falling over the person, and his first instinct was to ignore him and go on. Lorenzo the Magnificent lay dying; what did he care for vagrants and drunks?

Something made him stop, though, and drop to a crouch.

On closer inspection, he noted dispassionately that the man was not ill-looking. Hair just long enough to be fashionable, a pleasant face, and his body, although hidden by a strange shapeless garment, was clearly strong and well-muscled. He might be a useful model. Perhaps, if he were indeed a vagrant, he would consent to pose in exchange for a few hot meals.

The vagrant stirred, and opened his eyes.

The young man’s breath caught. He saw eyes like that, in his mind, when he read the works of the Latin poets. The heroes of classical Greece must have had such eyes, haunted, tormented by the demons of their own minds –

“Who are you?” the young man demanded.

The stranger looked at him, but did not respond. Had his wits been addled by a night out in the cold? Or perhaps he simply did not speak Italian. As far as the young man could judge, he was tall enough to be from Germany, or one of the other countries to the north.

“Who are you?” he tried again. Then, with some difficulty, because his Latin was rusty, “Quod… nomen?”

That got a smile from the stranger, who said hoarsely, “Sam.”

“Sam? Samuel?”

“Yes… Sic.”

 _Ah._ “Anglicus?”

Samuel nodded, but the young man spoke no English. A strange, rough language, with its harsh Saxon consonants.

But he could be single-minded in the pursuit of what he wanted, and at the moment, despite the ill-omened red sun shining on the spires and domes of Florence, despite the oppressive stillness of the April air, despite the physicians shaking their heads over his patron’s sickbed, what he wanted was a model, and the lack of a common language would not stand in his way.

He made a universal signal for food and drink, hoping to persuade the stranger to come up to the villa, at least. Some English-speaking steward might be willing to help.

Samuel responded with a grateful smile, followed by the question, “Quod nomen est tibi?”

The young man smiled back as he helped his new friend to his feet.

“Buonarroti,” he responded. “Michelangelo Buonarroti.”

* * *

An accident.

A freaking _accident_.

When other people had accidents they broke windows or spilt spaghetti sauce, but Sam? Oh, no. When Sam had accidents, he fell through time portals.

_Time portals._

And did he do it like a normal person, with a note left behind to give Dean some indication of _when_ to start looking? No, that would be too damn easy. Since the planet was four and a half billion years old and all, and that wasn’t even counting whatever billion years there were left until the sun went supernova.

Crap. What if Sam had managed to push himself back to a time before the earth had breathable air? What if he was lying somewhere in a fug of carbon dioxide?

What if he’d thrust himself into the sun mid-nova?

What if –

Dean forced himself to calm down. Whatever had happened, he couldn’t help Sam by panicking.

He could figure this out.

He restarted the video from the beginning, paying even more attention than he had the first four times.

It was clear what had happened. Sam had been reading something, muttering to himself, and somehow the muttering had combined with the symbols carved on the floor. Dean had picked up the book, which had identified the symbols as one half of a time travel spell. The other half was eight lines of Latin, with two large blanks. One was marked _Locum_ and the other _Tempus_.

Where and when.

Dean had tried saying, “Fratri meo,” but that had done absolutely no good. Apparently the stupid spell needed the name of an actual place.

Dean didn’t for a moment believe that Sam had _deliberately_ sent himself back in time. He would never have done that without warning. They didn’t have a lot of unbreakable rules, but in the last few months they’d established some, and one of them was, “You don’t just up and disappear without warning your brother because it makes him _worry_ and then he will kick your ass for being a little bitch.”

Dean shook his head. This was useless.

He went into the storage room, sidestepping the carved symbols and picking up one of the books on the table. Sam had stuck a Post-it on top, and _Ref. Rns cdx LdV_ was just legible. Sam’s handwriting sucked.

But Sam’s geek brain was as sharp as ever, and Dean, hoping he’d at least figure out _what_ Sam had been working on, opened the book.

It was full of glossy black-and-white photographs, the pages yellowed and cracking with age. The pictures were of paintings, mainly portraits, sculptures, and leatherbound books, none of which looked remotely familiar. Each photograph was followed by a short description.

 _Titus Livius Patavinus_ , was written in bold print under a picture of what looked like about three million books stacked in a shelf. _Books 1 to 142 of Ab Urbe Condita. Completed c. 9 BCE. Many books believed lost by civilians. Complete collection in ML safe house in Rome._

The next photograph was of a picture of some kind, it looked like some king being crowned.

_Bayeux Tapestry, missing panels. Surrender of English nobles and coronation of William the Conqueror. Work c. 1070 AD. Believed lost by civilians. In ML safe house in Scotland._

Huh. An inventory list. A super-geeky inventory list, yeah, but still just an inventory list.

Dean flipped a few more pages, stopping when something caught his eye.

It was a sculpture of a man draped in some sort of fur. He was on his knees, but he was looking up with sad, lost eyes –

Sam’s eyes.

His face had no more than a passing resemblance to Sam’s, but Dean knew those sorrowful puppy eyes. They’d been used on him at least once a week for most of his life.

_Michelangelo, Mourning Hercules. Unknown model. Completed c. 1492 AD. Believed lost by civilians. In ML safe house in Paris._

Dean let out a breath. Unknown model? That wasn’t an unknown model.

 

 

* * *

  
Sam spooned up the last of the stew.

Across the table, Michelangelo – _Michelangelo_ , Sam felt like he was in some kind of dream – watched him hungrily.

“Conditus?” Michelangelo asked, and Sam nodded. The stew had been surprisingly good.

Michelangelo had been willing enough to talk, and it hadn’t taken much to figure out where he was – Lorenzo de Medici’s family estate outside Florence. Sam hadn’t quite dared ask which year it was, but it was clearly sometime towards the end of the fifteenth century.

Now all he had to figure out was how to get the codex. He’d come all this way. He might as well collect the damn thing. And then he could focus on getting home.

He’d probably triggered something in the bunker – he hadn’t even realized he was reading aloud until the words were out and he was falling. He was so used to telling Dean whenever he found something interesting that he’d done it without thinking, even though Dean hadn’t even been in the room.

Sam dropped his spoon back in the bowl. Michelangelo was on him at once, hustling him to his feet and out the door.

Sam tried to demand where they were going, but Michelangelo shook his head and motioned for silence. He led Sam down a long corridor and into what looked like an office of some sort. Two clerks sat poring over pages of accounts. Another man, who was probably a supervisor of some kind, got to his feet and spoke angrily to Michelangelo in Italian.

Michelangelo responded just as angrily, and it took several minutes of arguing and gesticulating before the other man turned to Sam and said haltingly, “Art thou Samuel?”

“Samuel. Yes. That’s me. I. Call me Sam.”

“Samuel,” the man replied, ignoring the invitation to call him Sam, “I am called Antonio, steward to Lorenzo the Magnificent. What dost thou, Samuel, amongst us? Where is thy home?”

“I’m… My home’s far away. I am a… traveller. I need help. Please.”

“What dost thou need?”

Sam hesitated. He needed a hunter, or a Man of Letters, or something like that, but how did he explain that without ending up on trial for witchcraft or heresy or whatever it was they were trying people for these days?

“A library. A… A learned man? A philosopher or a scientist?”

Michelangelo gave a start of surprise and spoke rapidly to the steward, who listened and shook his head, but still translated for Sam, “If thou wilst pose for a sculpture, Michelangelo will help thee.”

“ _What?_ I don’t have time to pose for a sculpture! I have to get _home_! My brother must be going out of his mind. I –”

The steward held up a hand, and Sam fell silent. “I beg thee to pose, for he hath set his heart upon having thee and if thou wilst not oblige him, he will be insufferable. For all his oddities, he is clever, and he can help thee, if thou wilst but permit it.”

 

 

* * *

  
Wikipedia filled in the gaps. Well, to an extent. Dean had narrowed it down to a two-year span when Michelangelo _might_ have sculpted the figure –

Despite himself, he snickered. _Mourning Hercules._ He would never let Sam live that one down.

Two years. Still too long.

But he had no idea how to narrow it. He could just pick a date at random, but…

What if he was wrong? He couldn’t afford to be wrong.

He picked up his phone.

Garth answered on the first ring.

“I need some help,” Dean said, not bothering with pleasantries.

“Dean? What’s wrong?”

“Sam’s gotten himself in trouble, the little idiot, and I need some information so I can get him out.”

“Sure, what do you want?”

“There’s a lost sculpture by Michelangelo. _Mourning Hercules._ I need to know the exact date he started work on it.”

There was a moment’s silence, and then Garth said, “He’s gone back in time?”

“Looks like it. Little bitch.”

“Have you tried the library?”

“Of course I haven’t tried the freaking library. If I could try the library I wouldn’t be calling you because it would mean Sam was here to look crap up! And I don’t think it’ll be in your friendly local public library anyway. Look, the catalogue says the sculpture is with the Rome branch of the Men of Letters – or it was when they printed the thing, anyway –”

“Tyler and Lindsay are just back from a job in Venice. They might’ve heard something. Let me call them and get back to you, yeah?”

“Thanks, Garth.”

“Anytime, Dean. Don’t worry, we’ll find Sammy.”

“Don’t call him Sammy,” Dean said automatically. “Thanks, Garth.”

 

 

* * *

  
Sam followed Michelangelo down the garden path, nodding as the young man assured him in broken Latin that the sitting wouldn’t take long. He didn’t need Samuel to pose for the entire sculpture – although of course _nothing_ would please him more than if Samuel did. No? Was Samuel sure? All right, then. This would just take a few hours. He needed some sketches. And then they would speak of other things. This was not the time. Such subjects were not meant for daylight.

Sam gave Michelangelo a startled glance. Before he could say anything, the path gave onto what looked like a large summerhouse. Through the open windows Sam could see that it was an artist’s studio.

Michelangelo ushered him inside and onto a raised platform and left him there while he rummaged in a trunk near the door. Sam stood a little uncomfortably. He had no idea what he was posing for, so he had no idea what he was meant to do.

The sculptor came back with a fur cloak, which he held out to Sam. Sam took it, turning it over in his hands before draping it around his shoulders.

“No!” Michelangelo protested. “Nulla.” He stepped onto the platform and grasped Sam’s shirt, tugging at it lightly. “Non vestimenta!”

“No,” said Sam firmly. “You want me to pose, I’ll pose. But with vestimenta.”

“Sed Hercules vestimento –”

“I’m not Hercules.” Michelangelo stared at him and Sam groaned. “Really? You didn’t understand that? Ego sum non Hercules. Ego sum Sam.”

Michelangelo shook his head sadly. “Tunica?” he tried, tugging at Sam’s shirt again.

Sam sighed. “Fine, but this is our secret, yeah? Hoc est Arcanum. _Arcanum._ ”

“Arcanum,” Michelangelo agreed, smiling brightly. Sam unbuttoned his shirt and took it off, draping the cloak around his shoulders instead. Michelangelo had him kneel on the platform, shoulders bowed but head up, and then he fetched a thick sheaf of parchment paper and a couple of charcoal sticks and walked around and around Sam making lightning-quick sketches.

Several minutes into it, he shook his head in frustration.

He leapt onto the platform and crouched in front of Sam.

 

 

* * *

  
“Dean Winchester.”

“Dean, it’s Garth. I spoke to Bob Lindsay. He gave me the number of a guy in Rome who maintains a repository of our kind of stuff.”

“Great. What’s the number?”

“I already spoke to him. I didn’t want you to terrorize him.”

“Hey!”

“Oh, come on, Dean. This guy doesn’t know you, so he doesn’t know to make allowances for how insane you get when you’re worried about Sam.”

“I am _not_ worried about Sam.”

“Do you want to know what he said or not?”

“Yeah, what did he say?”

“According to the records he’s got, Michelangelo had a slab of black granite hauled into his studio on April 10, 1492. He spent some time studying it and actually began the sculpture a week later.”

“Thanks, Garth. I owe you one.”

“Just get Sam back safe.”

 

 

* * *

  
Michelangelo’s fingers flew on the parchment.

It had taken some work to get the expression he wanted out of Samuel. He’d tried telling the man to look sad, and then telling him to look desperate, but Samuel – or _Sam_ , as he insisted on calling himself, another uncouth northern custom – clearly wasn’t an actor.

Eventually, Michelangelo had simply told him of the moment in the life of Hercules that he was trying to sculpt.

Hercules was alone. He had lost his wife, his children, everyone he cared for – and they were dead by his own hand. He had been driven mad, yes, driven mad by divine Juno, but _he_ had killed his family. They were dead, and their only crime had been that they loved him. Hercules was alone, and it was his own fault. For all his strength, for all his desire to do great deeds and be worthy of his father’s name, he was a curse to all who loved him.

That had worked. Michelangelo had a feeling there must be a story there – he knew where his own skill lay, and it wasn’t in drama. It was Samuel’s own emotions on his face.

He would worry about it later. He knew there was no hope of getting Samuel to stay long enough to pose for the full sculpture, so he had to get as many sketches as he could before the other man’s patience ran out. Once he had what he needed, he would fulfil his part of the bargain.

A learned man? Michelangelo Buonarroti knew many learned men. He even knew a few learned men of the sort, he suspected, Samuel needed.

 

 

* * *

 


	3. Milano

 

Dean landed hard, just managing to keep his feet.

He’d made sure to read everything he could about what was happening in Florence. Lorenzo de Medici had just died and the city was on edge as everyone wondered whether his son would be any good. Michelangelo was on the point of packing up and going home. Tuscany was a powder keg.

Trust Sam to pick a time like this.

It was the middle of the night, and Florence was dark behind him, but the stars were bright and the moon was nearly full. He didn’t have any trouble picking his way up the gravel path to the villa on the hill.

There were people outside, and people coming and going, speaking in hushed whispers and treading softly.

Dean had taken the trouble to dress the part in a doublet and hose. It had made him feel a little silly putting it on, but now he slipped right in among the Italian nobles gathered to say a final farewell to the de facto ruler of Florence.

He tapped a passing footman on the shoulder. The man turned, bowed, and waited.

“Michelangelo?” Dean asked.

* * *

Sam suppressed a groan, forcing himself not to shift his weight. His muscles were still stiff after all the rough treatment.

The city was still, and he could only hope that the man he’d come to see was available and receiving visitors. If he wasn’t, all this would’ve been for nothing, and Dean would kill Sam for making him worry.

Sam wouldn’t blame him. He hadn’t intended to fall through the time portal, but the fact remained that he had, and Dean was the one left to fret.

His big brother must be going out of his mind by now.

It was almost done, though. Soon he’d have what they needed, and then he could go back – if he could figure out a way to get back to the exact same instant from which he’d vanished, Dean needn’t worry at all. Dean would still kick his ass when he heard the story, but at least he wouldn’t have agonized over Sam’s disappearance.

He was distracted enough that he didn’t notice the door opening, and he jerked in surprise when a footman slipped into the room, bowed, and indicated that Sam should follow him.

 

 

* * *

  
The footman pushed open a door and slipped through it into a room Dean couldn’t see. He heard voices, one low and deferential, one sharp and impatient, and then the footman came back and opened the door wide for Dean to step through.

“Thanks,” Dean said, going into the room.

The first thing he saw was the huge slab of black granite. It loomed large, dominating the room so thoroughly that it was a moment before Dean noticed the man darting around it, occasionally tapping the surface with a finger or a small hammer.

There was no sign of Sam, though, and although Dean hadn’t seriously expected it to be that easy, he couldn’t help feeling discouraged.

It had all made perfect sense when he’d been sitting in the bunker and the sculpture on the page had looked up at him with Sam’s desperate, pleading eyes. But there wasn’t a sculpture here. There was a slab of granite, and a man who looked a little like a slab of granite himself, and no sign that Sam had ever been here or ever would be.

Who’d he been kidding? So the sculpture looked a little like Sam. But that didn’t prove anything. Sam could be _anywhere_.

After several minutes of silence, the sculptor looked over his shoulder at Dean with an impatient expression.

Dean hesitated, looking around the room for some sign Sam had been there.

And there, on an easel by the window, pinned to a wooden board that was leaning against the upright, were several sketches. Dean was too far away to see details but Michelangelo wasn’t one of the greatest artists of the Renaissance for nothing. He didn’t _need_ to see details; it was there in the slope of the shoulders, the angle of the head, the long lines of the body.

All the same, he went for a closer look, ignoring Michelangelo’s protest.

They were of Sam, all right. Not a man who bore a passing resemblance to Sam, but _Sam_. Sam with his hair falling into his eyes. Sam on his knees with his hands clasped in front of him like he was praying – or begging. Sam, looking up with pain and guilt and sorrow and a hundred other things Dean _hated_ to see on his face.

“Where is he?” Dean demanded roughly, unpinning one of the sketches, whirling to face Michelangelo, and waving the drawing in his face.

The young sculptor looked startled. “Samuel?”

“Yes! God, yes! He was here? You saw him? Where is he?”

“Scis Samuel?”

Latin. Dean could handle Latin.

“Yes. Yes, I know Samuel. He’s my brother. Crap. Frater. Sam est frater. Ubi est ille?”

“Reliquit nudiusquarta.”

“He left four days ago? Why? Where’d he go? Um… God, where’s the geek when I need him? Quo vadebat?”

Michelangelo led Dean to the desk, where a map of Italy lay unrolled. He pointed to a small circle that had been marked on it.

Dean had to squint to decipher the curly writing, but in the end he figured it out.

“Milano? Sam’s gone to Milan?” He turned to Michelangelo. “Quid ita? No, never mind why. I need to go after him. How’d he go? Uh… Quomodo vadebat?”

Michelangelo smiled. “Equus.”

“He’s riding? Crap. Don’t tell me, I’m sure he stole one of your boss’s horses. I need to go after him. Thanks for the help.”

Dean started to put the sketch he was still holding down on the table, and then hesitated. It was true that Sam’s forlorn expression in the picture broke Dean’s heart, but how likely was he to have another opportunity like this?

“Um… Can I keep this? Ego potest capere?”

Michelangelo looked from Dean to the sketch, and then, with a shake of his head and an amused smile, he took it away.

“Oh,” Dean said, disappointed.

But Michelangelo was riffling through the scraps on the desk, and he turned a moment later to give Dean a sheet of parchment.

The drawing on that was far less finely done than the ones on the easel. It was just a few strokes of black charcoal with some smudged-in shadows. Crude as it was, it was _Sam_ , Sam just as surely as the picture Michelangelo had just taken from him.

But in this one Sam was smiling, the small, shy smile that Dean didn’t get to see nearly often enough.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

 

 

* * *

  
The man who came down the stairs was just going on forty. He was dressed in doublet and hose like the one Michelangelo had given Sam, but he had a dark blue robe on over it.

He was holding the introductory note Michelangelo had written.

“Thou hast come from England?” he asked. At Sam’s startled expression he said, “I have learnt the tongue of the English. It hath not the beauty of Latin but it can serve. How may _I_ serve?”

“I need your help.”

“Art thou English?”

Sam hadn’t tried to explain where he came from to Michelangelo – for all he knew they hadn’t even heard of Christopher Columbus in Italy. But looking into the dark eyes of the man before him, he couldn’t help but tell the truth.

“I’m from America. It’s… far to the west of here. From the future.”

“Far to the west? The Spaniards seek a westward route to the Indies…” The man smiled, and Sam wondered how much he knew. He dropped the subject, though, and went on, “Michelangelo wrote true, then. He writeth here thou wast from the future, but I scarcely credited his report. He is an enthusiastic boy, but sometimes too imaginative. He writeth that thou art one of us, a hunter of evil.”

“I try.”

“We may ask no more of ourselves,” said the other man gravely. “How may I serve thee?”

“Your book – the _Codex de Caelo et Inferno_.”

The man frowned. “The book of Heaven and Hell. Thy time must be dire if thou hast need of that work.”

“Please – _please_. Our need is desperate. The Angels have been expelled from Heaven. They walk the Earth seeking vessels and vengeance, and smiting all before them. I need to know.” Sam drew a deep breath. “I know you’re a Prophet. I know you deciphered the Angel Tablet. The Codex is lost in my time – I couldn’t find any records of it, not even in the safe houses of the Men of Letters.”

The man sighed. “Hast thou considered that the codex is lost to thy time because thou hast come to take it now?”

Sam grinned. “I’ve had experience of time travel. And I also know that it doesn’t matter if the codex is lost before my time, because nobody’s going to need it… until I do.”

“That is so. Very well, Samuel, I will help thee. Let it not be said that Leonardo da Vinci refused assistance to one who sought it. But the codex is not here.”

“Where is it?”

“Not here,” repeated Leonardo. “I will take thee to it, but not tonight. I have duties in Milan. Our task must be secret. We are tolerated, but it is best not to try the Holy Father’s patience. Rest, Samuel, and recover thy strength. If all be fair, we will fetch the codex. We leave in two days.”

“Can’t we do it sooner?”

“Thou art in haste.”

“It’s just – my brother is waiting for me, and he’ll worry.”

“Thou art fortunate,” said Leonardo, “to have a brother to wait for thee and chafe at thy lateness. And thy brother is fortunate that thou wishest to spare his fears. But we must wait. Sleep, Samuel. Thou art weary. Rest will do thee good.”

 

 

* * *

  
Dean looked at the horse doubtfully. It was tall and black and it was glaring at him like he’d insulted its mother.

“Is it… What’s Latin for safe? Salvum? Fidus? Crap, you know what I mean.”

Michelangelo shrugged and didn’t respond. His mind appeared to be on something else.

“Right,” Dean muttered. “See you around, then.”

“Maneo!” Michelangelo exclaimed suddenly.

“What for? You’ve given me the map and I’ll just follow discreetly behind Lord Whatsit’s carriage that’s going to Milan. Anyway it’s not like there are a million highways to get lost on, and if I get accosted by robbers they’ll find out how well twenty-first century weapons work.” Michelangelo looked at him blankly. “God, how _did_ Sam talk to you? Fine. Quid vis?”

“Tu ponunt…” Michelangelo fumbled for the word. “Sculptura?”

“You want me to pose for a sculpture? No. No sculptura. I don’t have time. I need to find my brother. Oportet invenire frater.”

Michelangelo looked disappointed, but he shrugged, opening the paddock gate and leading the horse out. “Pulchrum… rariores,” he muttered.

“I’m sure it would’ve been incredible.” Dean took the horse’s bridle. “What did you want me to pose for, anyway? Quod sculptura?”

“Ah.” The young sculptor’s eyes glazed over, and he stepped back, looking Dean over like a farmer assessing a horse. His fingers twitched as though clutching an imaginary pencil. “David. Es David.”

“David.” Dean paused, feeling the colour rising in his cheeks. God, no. “ _David?_ ”

“David.” Michelangelo caught his hand, pulling him away from the horse. “Vultis? Nunc? Decem minutis, no magis.”

“ _No!_ ” Dean pulled away. “God, no, absolutely no David. I refuse to pose for David and I forbid you to even _think_ about me when you’re sculpting David. Just… No.” When Michelangelo didn’t argue further, Dean nodded. “And… Thanks. For helping my brother.”

The young man shrugged and smiled, stepping forward and holding the horse’s head steady so Dean could mount. Dean settled into the saddle, hoping the horse would be less temperamental than a plane.

“Goodbye,” Dean said, and he dug his heels into the horse’s flanks.

 

 

* * *

  
Sam wondered if people in Renaissance Italy ever ate anything other than stew. Leonardo’s housekeeper had brought some to his room. Leonardo had felt – and Sam agreed – that the fewer people who knew Sam was around, the better. Sam had stayed in his room all day, and other than the housekeeper and the footman who’d let him in the night before, nobody had seen him.

It was getting a little dull, though.

He’d prowled around the room, examined the drawings Leonardo had left scattered, and finally just sat and looked out the window at Milan.

He’d spoken to Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci. It was a little surreal. And yet he didn’t feel as excited as he should.

He missed Dean.

Sam sighed as he recognized the real reason for his restlessness. He missed his big brother. As much fun as it was to be walking the streets of Renaissance Italy, it would be more fun with Dean around to laugh at him and pretend not to be excited and secretly have just as much fun as Sam did.

“Enough melancholy!” a voice said, and Sam looked up to see Leonardo standing in the doorway. He’d exchanged his robe for a heavy coat and he was wearing boots. “We ride.”

“Where are we going?”

“Where all roads lead, Samuel. Come. We must make the most of the light.”

 

 

* * *

  
  



	4. Roma

**[  
](http://collegeboy-spn.livejournal.com/29412.html)**

Dean groaned, wishing fifteenth-century saddles were more comfortable.

Sam _really_ owed him for this.

He had ridden to Milan only to discover that Sam and da Vinci had left, headed for Rome. The direction Dean had come from. So there’d been nothing for it but to turn around and go back. It’d been over eleven days’ hard riding and right then Dean was willing to do just about _anything_ to make it stop.

If it had been anyone but Sam…

Da Vinci’s housekeeper, fortunately, spoke a little English. Not a lot, but enough that she understood that Sam was Dean’s brother and Dean was completely unreasonable when it came to his brother’s safety. (Well, to be honest, you didn’t need to speak English to understand that Dean was unreasonable when it came to his brother’s safety. The Sumerian spirit that had once tried to skewer Sam with an antique lance could attest to that.)

The housekeeper had given him directions and sent one of the footmen, who also spoke a little English, to guide Dean on the way.

“How much longer?” Dean growled.

The footman shrugged. “The Villa is a few miles on the other side of Rome. We will be there by dusk.”

“Can’t we go _faster_?”

“We will be there by dusk,” the footman repeated, and Dean sighed and scowled at the road.

* * *

“Art thou certain thou wishest this?” Leonardo asked again, even as he helped Sam tie the scrip shut. “Peril will attend thee, Samuel. What darkness lieth in wait even I cannot say.”

Sam looked up at the castle, peaceful and inviting with the sun shining on its battlements and the wind making the banners flutter.

He shuddered.

“You have no idea why the guardians abandoned it?” he asked.

“I would tell thee if I knew. They have left no record. I would I could go with thee, but…”

“But you’re not a hunter,” Sam said with a wry smile. “You’re a Man of Letters. No, don’t worry about it. I’ve dealt with weird stuff before. And you’re Leonardo da Vinci. You’re definitely not expendable.”

“Expendable? What a word to use! Art thou _expendable_ , then?”

“I’m not a scientist. Or an artist. I might’ve been a lawyer, but… Well. Look, I’m not saying –”

“What art thou saying? Thou talkest like a child, Samuel!”

“Hey!”

“Thou knowest the value of my life, five hundred years in the future, and Michelangelo’s, I grant thee that. But it is not thy place to judge the value of thine own life, Samuel, and it is certainly not thy place to find it wanting.” Leonardo patted his arm. “I do not send thee alone because I think thy life is worth less than mine. I send thee alone because, as thou art no artist, I am no huntsman. I would only hinder thee.”

Sam nodded. “Right. Thanks.”

“I will await thy return. Good hunting, Samuel. Remember what I told thee, and thou wilst come to no harm.”

 

* * *

  
Dean stared up at the building. It was nice enough, he supposed, but he appreciated Renaissance architecture a lot more now that he knew what the alternative could have been.

“That’s… it?” he asked. “St. Peter’s Basilica? This is it?”

His guide shrugged. “It does not please thee? It is an old structure, to be sure. They speak of building it anew.”

“Sounds like a good plan.”

“The Pope wanted my master to do it. Indeed, Lorenzo de Medici suggested as much, but my master has little interest in architecture.”

“That’s great,” Dean said. “How long until we get to this villa of yours?”

“We must rest the horses. My master has a house in the city. He may have left word of his plans. The villa has grown… dangerous. My master would not go there alone were there any choice.” The man cast Dean a sidelong glance. “Thy brother’s need must have been urgent. Which kingdoms hang in the balance? Master Leonardo would never have left Milan for less cause.”

“You have no idea,” Dean muttered.

 

* * *

  
Sam looked up at the villa. It looked innocent and peaceful, much as it had two days ago when he and Leonardo had ridden up and knocked on the door.

There had been no response, only an all-pervading stillness and a chill that had settled into Sam’s bones. They had left, and Leonardo had spoken to every secret alchemist and apothecary in Rome, but none of them had had any idea what had happened. The villa’s guardians hadn’t been seen for weeks.

Sam drew in a long breath. He missed Dean’s reassuring presence at his shoulder.

But there was no way to call Dean, and anyway they needed the codex. It was far better for Sam to go in and get it without putting Dean – or anybody else – at risk.

Sam tried the door. It opened without a sound.

He stepped into the darkness of the interior.

 

* * *

  
It took a moment for Sam’s eyes to get used to the darkness. When they did, he realized he was in an antechamber of some kind. Light shone through a doorway at the other end.

He picked his way across the room and stepped through.

The world swirled around him as he crossed the threshold. When it solidified, there was no villa. Sam was standing on the ramparts of a mediaeval fort. There was a sheer drop to his right; the Italian countryside was spread out below him like a patchwork quilt.

Rome, whose spires he had seen on the horizon when he had entered the villa, was nowhere in sight.

Sam swallowed. Leonardo hadn’t warned him about this.

For a moment he considered turning back, but he’d come this far. He might as well go through with it and get the codex.

He walked on, but he’d barely gone a few yards when he saw a telltale rust-coloured handprint on the parapet next to a staircase.

Sam hesitated – but the stairs led inside, into the fortress, and he needed to go inside anyway. He scrambled down the stairs and through a narrow corridor that opened suddenly into a wide hall.

At the far end was a treasure-trove of artefacts – sculptures, paintings in jewelled frames, piles of scrolls and stacks of weaponry. Under any other circumstances Sam would have had no attention to spare for anything else as soon as he’d seen that.

Now, his gaze was stuck on the tall, slender woman standing in the centre of the room.

As Sam watched, her eyes went black.

 

* * *

  
“Thou art Dean.” Leonardo da Vinci. said it without a moment’s hesitation, and Dean had to admit he was impressed. “Samuel spoke of thee.”

Oh.

“What’d he tell you?”

“That thou wouldst be worried and grieved by his absence.”

“Grieved? Melodramatic little bitch. Worried, yeah. Second I turn my back, the kid’s getting himself strangled by something evil. Where is he?”

Leonardo looked startled. “Samuel? He fetcheth the codex. In your tongue, the Book of Heaven and Hell. He said you had need.” He paused, and then shook his head. “In sooth, Dean, it sat ill with me that he should go alone. It seemed perilous. But he _would_ , and –”

“Sam’s gone somewhere _alone_?” Dean interrupted, because what the _hell_? This was Leonardo freaking da Vinci, the genius of the Renaissance, and he didn’t have the sense to know that you didn’t let Dean’s baby brother go to _perilous_ places by himself? “Where is he?”

“He retrieveth the codex,” da Vinci said, “as I told thee. The risk was worthwhile to him. I would have accompanied him, but once I saw the guardians were gone… I do not fear danger, Dean.” He raised his head proudly, as though making a point. “But I would have hindered thy brother more than I could have helped. I am ill equipped to hunt shadows.”

“And Sam –”

“Shadows fear his strength,” da Vinci said seriously. “I believe he will return unharmed from the villa, whatever may wait. Yet I fear for his spirit.”

“What? Why?”

“Despair may claim him yet. He believeth himself unworthy of thee. He believeth himself… _expendable_. Death and the afterlife hold no fear for him.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. That sounded about right.

“I’ll take care of it.”

“I did warn him,” da Vinci went on as though he hadn’t heard, “that the codex is… dangerous. All things have a price. Thus say the tablets of God.”

Dean stared. “What do you know about the tablets?”

“I have read them.”

“You’re a…”

“A prophet of the Lord. Samuel told me what you do. There is danger in what you plan.”

“Yeah, well, Sam’s not doing it this time. He hasn’t even recovered from the trials yet – no _way_ am I letting him try that. If anyone’s doing anything, I am.”

“That is no improvement.”

“Sam’ll be safe.”

“He will fret as much for thee as thou dost for him. Dost thou know so little of thine own brother, Dean?”

Dean shook his head. “I don’t have time for this. How do I get to Sam?”

 

* * *

  
Sam sensed rather than heard the person approaching, and forced himself not to react. He’d just been thrown into his third wall of the day; he wasn’t getting through this one on his own. He doubted the demon was expecting company. Maybe Leonardo had managed to contact a hunter to help him.

The demon grabbed him, hauling him up to his knees, and bent to whisper in his ear. It was something in Italian, but Sam didn’t need to understand the words. The tone was enough, dangerous and deadly. It sounded like –

Like Azazel, whispering in the dark, or like –

“Abaddon,” he gasped.

The sudden stiffness told him he was right.

Her fingers closed around his throat. Sam clawed at her hand, but she was too strong, and –

“ _Hey!_ ”

Oh, _god_.

He knew that voice, but it _couldn’t_ be, it wasn’t _possible_ –

“Stinking hands off my brother, bitch.”

Sam couldn’t keep a grin off his face.

_Dean._

 

* * *

  
“This _codex_ …” Dean asked, eyeing the book Sam was practically clutching to his chest. “It’s important because…”

“It has everything. The angel tablet, the demon tablet, the leviathan tablet, and apparently a couple of other tablets we don’t even know about. The Men of Letters in this time had five, and Leonardo put everything in this book.”

“So this has answers.”

“Not to everything,” Leonardo said, and Dean’s eyes flickered to him. “Some answers you must find for yourselves.”

“It’ll help, though,” Sam said. “And we need all the help we can get.”

Leonardo nodded acknowledgement.

“And about Abaddon,” Dean said. “I exorcised her, but it won’t last.”

“How didst thou successfully exorcise a Knight of Hell?” Leonardo demanded.

“She had all her attention on Sammy.” Dean’s eyes darkened. There were still finger-shaped bruises on Sam’s throat. When they got back to their own time, he was going to hunt Abaddon down and carve the name of God into her with Ruby’s knife. “Didn’t even realize I was there till I’d finished.”

“He was awesome,” Sam said lightly, and, just like that, Dean’s mood lifted.

Leonardo smiled from one of them to the other. “Before you go…” He focused on Sam. “How doth thy time remember me, Samuel?”

“They know you’re one of the most brilliant people who ever lived. Nobody knows about the… prophet… thing.”

“That is well. I would not choose that as part of my legacy. To be a prophet was thrust upon me, but I _chose_ my arts. Never did I want to know of the shadows and the darkness.”

“Hunting isn’t your legacy,” Sam assured him.

“It need not be yours.” Leonardo’s glance was taking in both of them now. “Your life is not measured by the dragons you slew. You have saved the world, but I do not speak of that.”

Sam looked dewy-eyed, and Dean patted his arm.

“You’ll ask someone to hide Michelangelo’s statue, yeah?”

“The Mourning Hercules? I will leave a note for my successors in our order to find. It will be done. None will see it who might link it to Samuel or your presence here.” Leonardo clasped Sam’s hand, then Dean’s, and his expression turned suddenly fierce. “Go, my friends. Good hunting.”

 

* * *

 


	5. Epilogo

**[  
](http://collegeboy-spn.livejournal.com/29548.html)**

 

“So now we know why _this_ thing is lost.” Sam put the codex carefully on the table, and turned to find Dean scowling at him. “What?”

“What? _What_ is that you freaking disappeared on me! What were you _thinking_ , Sam? I was going out of my mind!”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to make you worry, Dean. It’s not like I planned it! It was an accident. I was just reading bits of the spell to see how they sounded, I had no idea what would happen or that I was standing on that stupid drawing.”

“Sam.”

“I’m _sorry_.”

“Yeah, well, don’t do it again.” Dean took Michelangelo’s drawing out of his pocket and smoothed it out. “So, Leonardo let you bring the codex. You must’ve made an impression on him, kiddo.”

“He can always write himself another one.”

“Is he going to?”

“I don’t think so.” Sam shrugged. “It might fall into the wrong hands. This copy, we’ve got it now, we can keep it safe.”

“Yeah.” Dean hesitated and then said, “Sammy?”

Sam looked at him warily. “What?”

“Have you read it yet?”

“The codex? No. I haven’t had time. You know that. Why?”

“I… just… I don’t know, Sam. Maybe we should just get rid of it?”

“After we went to that much trouble to get it?”

“You said yourself it was an accident. It’s not like we were relying on it or anything.”

“Dean, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, just… Promise me something, Sam?”

Sam frowned. “That tone usually means you think I’m not going to like it.”

“Don’t rush into this.”

“Dean –”

“I don’t want to lose you. And I’m not saying we don’t need to shove those sons of bitches back where they belong, but maybe there’s a way that _doesn’t_ involve someone sacrificing themselves. How about we at least _try_ for that before we decide this is the only way?”

There was something naked and vulnerable in Dean’s voice, and Sam ached for everything his brother had been through since Sam had started the trials. They’d been hard on him, yeah, but Sam would take the sickness and the weakness and all the other crap over having to wake up every morning wondering if this would be the day he’d lose his brother.

“Sammy?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, smiling at Dean. “Yeah, we can do that.”

* * *

 

 

THE END


End file.
